The Other House
by CrazyRower
Summary: Everyone knows Dr. House, the uncaring, Vicodin-popping, diagnostician that everyone hates. The tables are turning, however. Wilson is in the hospital after a violent collision. Another House begins to emerge after the wreck, one who cares. House/Wilson.
1. Crash

Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D., or any of the characters. I don't own anything by the Gin Blossoms, either.

Chapter 1—Crash.

"Damn it," James Wilson grumbled, slowing his car and reaching under the brake pedal for his pack of gum. His fingers closed around the little cardboard box, and he sat up and picked up his speed. He turned on his blinker and began to turn at the stop sign, the last turn before reaching the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. A speeding truck flew through the intersection and slammed into the passenger's side of Wilson's car, sending it careening into the roadside ditch, upside down. He tried to reach for his cell phone, but his arm was pinned down by the caved-in roof.

*~*~*~*

"Where the hell is Wilson?" Greg House demanded, stopping in front of Cuddy, and leaning on his cane. "I have a question for him."

"Wilson hasn't checked in yet," Cuddy said, "is there a problem?"

"I was wondering if he'd noticed how fast your ass is growing."

House limped away from the clinic and went to his office. He sat down in the recliner and picked up his ball, bouncing it off of the empty stretch of wall in front of him, lost in thought.

"House," Chase called, throwing open the glass door to House's office. "We found Wilson. Come with me, it's important."

"Why so urgent?" House asked, tossing his ball into the air once more. It bounced off the ceiling and fell into his open, waiting hands.

"Well, Wilson was involved in a car accident this morning, and is currently bleeding out in the ER, waiting on an anesthesiologist. Just thought you'd like to know. But seeing as you're preoccupied…."

House's ball fell to the floor and rolled under his desk as he snatched up his cane and slowly stood up. _Jimmy. Goddamn it, what has he gotten himself—watch yourself, House, Chase is right in front of you._ "Where is he?"

"In the ER," Chase said, slightly taken aback by House's sudden display of caring emotion.

"Well, I don't know what bed he's in, now, do I?"

House followed Chase down to the ER, easily keeping pace with his younger colleague's quick walk. The thought of Wilson dying without him blocked all thoughts of the pain attacking his leg. He followed Chase all the way down to the ER, taking the stairs when other people occupied the elevator, through the waiting room, and up to a bed, whose curtains were drawn.

"I think they're still changing him," Chase said, "it was pretty terrible. They had to cut him out of the car. A few deep gashes on his left arm, severe abrasions to the torso, and a good portion of his windshield and dashboard cut into his legs. They're going to have to remove most of it surgically, but he should be able to walk without rehabilitation."

Two nurses emerged from the curtains, carrying a red biohazard bag. House could see the light shining through the thin plastic, illuminating patterns of splattered blood. A piece of fabric flopped out of the corner of the bag. Wilson's god-awful Wednesday tie. House felt his stomach clench, then walked through the curtains, leaving Chase to his own devices.

"House?" Wilson said weakly, lifting his head.

_Why isn't there someone with him?_ House wondered. _Someone needs to be in here with him._

"House," Wilson repeated, "is it that bad?"

House looked down at Wilson and forced his face to remain blank, despite the emotion welling in his chest. His head was throbbing, he could feel his pulse rise. Wilson had been stripped to his waist, from what House could see, and most of his chest and left arm were obscured by bandages that had red dots slowly seeping through them. Blood.

"There's definitely been worse," House said. "Someone should be in here in a couple minutes. You're going into surgery."

"What's wrong with me?"

"I don't know." House stepped closer to the bed and impulsively held the younger man's hand.

"What the hell?" Wilson mumbled, looking up at House, pain clouding his vision.

"I have a secret for you," House said, "but there's one condition. You have to live until tonight. Got it?"

"House, what are you talking about? Spell it out. Too many painkillers."

"I meant exactly what I said."

Two male nurses pushed back the curtains. House quickly dropped Wilson's hand and took up his usual, grimacing behavior. The nurses pushed a gurney up to Wilson's bed, and lifted him onto it.

"House come with me," Wilson said, his voice obviously straining to maintain a higher volume than a faint whisper. "Please"?

"Cuddy's about to explode; I have to get to my case. You'll be okay."

"House, please."

"Don't worry. You can't get much worse."

A handful of tears rolled down Wilson's face as House left him yet again. He looked up to find some sort of reassurance in the older man's face, but all he saw was House's retreating back, limping towards the exit. _Well, it obviously can't be worse, _Wilson thought, _he'd be here if I were dying. Then I would be interesting._


	2. Not Boring

Author's Note: I've been having difficulty with page breaks, because I occasionally skip from one thing to the next. I apologize for confusion in this and any further chapters.

Chapter 2—Not Boring.

"Why aren't you in the OR?" Chase asked when House suddenly appeared in the diagnostics room.

"Do something that'll get me thrown off of this case," House ordered. "Anything. Say I based the diagnosis off of my study of how fast Cuddy's ass is growing, something me-like. I don't care if you have to blow something up. Page me if you can't come up with anything. Meanwhile, run a tox screen, and then do an MRI."

As quickly as he had appeared, House vanished. He limped as fast as he could down the hall, to the elevator, then to the recovery wing. He looked around for an attendant, the nurse's station was empty, and saw a young female nurse emerging from the restroom across the hall from the room he stood next to.

"Reserve this for Dr. Wilson," House ordered, tapping his cane on the door to a private room. The nurse looked up at him with an expression of distaste. "Get that order down to the OR, quickly. His surgery should end in about forty five minutes."

"Who are you?" The nurse shot, unimpressed by House's disheveled appearance.

"Dr. Greg House, diagnostics. I'm responsible for Dr. Wilson."

The nurse grimaced, having heard of House's generally disrespectful tendencies, and hurried down the hall towards the stairs. House opened the unoccupied room and started to prepare it for Wilson's arrival. For his own comfort, he moved his recliner into it, and brought his ball along as well. He was about to turn on the TV and hunt for bad sci-fi movies when he caught a glimpse of a gurney rolling down the hall.

"As requested," the nurse from the hall said, bitterly, as two men in scrubs rolled Wilson into the room and placed him on the bed. One of the men set up Wilson's IV lines, and the other disappeared along with the nurse and the gurney.

"I assume you're responsible for him?" The scrubbed man asked, looking up at House, then turning on the heart rate monitor.

"Yes," House said. "Thanks and bye." House closed the door after the man. He quickly checked Wilson's IV's to make sure the man hadn't made a mistake, and sat in his recliner, waiting.

"You're a jackass," Wilson grumbled, opening one eye and glaring up at House. House startled at Wilson's sudden awakening. "Now what's that damn secret?"

"I'll wait until you wake up all the way so it can sink in," House said. His hands twitched as he fought back an impulse to snatch up Wilson and hold him, to tell him he was sorry for leaving him.

"Leave me alone, House. If you're going to be an ass, there's no point in having you in here."

"I'm sorry."

Wilson's eyes snapped open in surprise. _Sorry? He's House. He's never sorry. Shit I must be in bad shape._

"For everything," House finished. He gave in and put his hand over Wilson's.

"Hang on a minute. Are you telling me that you're apologizing, for all of the general you-ness? All of the crap I get on a daily basis?"

"Yeah, something like that." House leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest in an effort to maintain his composure. It was easier now that Wilson was awake, alive, in front of him.

"You're not being sarcastic about this, right? You're actually sorry for treating me like crap?"

"Yes. God, Wilson, chill out. I apologized. I'm capable of some emotion."

"Emotion's irrational."

"For now, I think I'll stick with falsely rationalizing it. Otherwise this would be boring."

"It's just a lot to wrap my head around. You're never sorry."

Wilson closed his eyes, exhausted. _Why the hell would he apologize, _he wondered_, I should tell him I love him, just to fuck with him. There's no way he's serious about this. He wouldn't believe me, but he would wonder. Crap. No. He wouldn't. He's House. Theoretically, I should be safe with this._

"You okay over there?" House quipped, "heavy thoughts cause a blood vessel to pop somewhere?"

"No," Wilson said, "well, my leg hurts, but I'm contemplating whether or not to mention _my_ secret."

Now House was interested. "What do you mean? That the real James Wilson actually hit a guy with a bottle and not a mirror? Because that wouldn't be interesting."

"Shut up, you prick, I'm in a lot of pain."

House reached across the bed and pressed the button for more morphine. Wilson watched him patiently, as his fingers seemed to dance around the buttons.

"What on earth? House, what's wrong with me?"

House had started to absentmindedly stroke Wilson's hair.

"It's the morphine," House said, "I'm just sitting here."

Wilson leaned against House's hand and fell asleep, surrendering to what he believed to be a hallucination. He would take it, though, real or not. House had voluntarily touched him, and compassionately at that. House waited until Wilson was completely asleep before he stood up, with the intention of going to the bathroom. Chase and Foreman appeared at the door.

"What's wrong?" House asked, "I have to pee."

"The patient's skin's falling off," Chase said.

"I'm not on the case anymore."

"Cuddy wouldn't let you off," Foreman explained. House gave them a disapproving look, then noticed Cuddy running down the hall.

"House," Cuddy interjected, out of breath, "the surgeons think they left something in Wilson's leg."

"What the hell?"

Cuddy pushed past the three men and grabbed Wilson's hand, squeezing the nail bed of his right thumb. Wilson jumped awake.

"Um, ow," Wilson said, snatching his hand back. "What's the—oh God! Holy shit." Wilson doubled over in bed, grabbing his leg. He let go immediately, a sharp pain drilling through his thigh.

"I know what's wrong," Cuddy said. "You're going back to the OR; I have someone coming down here. You're going to be okay."

Wilson looked up at House. "You're coming this time," he said.

(Page Break)

"They left a scalpel in my leg?" Wilson asked in disbelief, "who the hell leaves a scalpel in someone's leg?"

House leaned back in his recliner and turned the TV on mute. "Idiots," he said. "You're fine, Wilson. It was just a scalpel. No need to fly off the handle."

"I could've been seriously hurt!"

"It's not lupus. You're fine." House leaned over and hugged Wilson. "You win. I should've come along the first time. Saved you a couple extra days in the hospital."

Both men laughed a bit at the in-joke, and Wilson slowly brought his arms up to support House. "So why are you hugging me? The House I know doesn't support irrational gestures."

"There's…two Houses, so to speak."

"Well, this won't be boring."

"No, Jimmy, it won't."

Wilson froze. House sat up in his chair, gaze still fixed on Wilson.

"Am I dying?" He asked seriously.

"No."

"Are you dying?"

"Neither of the two."

"But you won't tell me."

House stood up and grabbed his cane. "I don't want to send you into cardiac arrest."

"Don't leave again. Please, don't leave."

House heaved a sigh and his hand slipped from the door handle. "There is something wrong with you."

"What?"

"You wore the Wednesday tie on the wrong day. It's bad movie night. Don't worry, there's cable. Cuddy knows better than to put me in a room without decent television."

Wilson cast him a relieved smile. House smirked, then started to crack up, then burst into a fit of full-on, uncontrollable laughter. Confused, Wilson laughed along with him, in the most explicit display of relief and happiness ever seen from House.

"Okay," Wilson said, wiping his eyes with the back of my hand. "Really, what is wrong with me?"

"Absolutely nothing. You should be able to leave in a little under a week. They have to wait and run some tests. Make sure they didn't leave anything else behind."

"Then what's wrong with you? You don't laugh."

Before House could stop himself, his secret, more heavily guarded than his past and more valued than Vicodin, spilled forth. "I am completely, totally," his eyes widened in horror but he couldn't stop the tail end of his sentence from spilling forth, "in love with you."

Wilson's jaw dropped and his eyebrows shot up as far as they could go. Had he heard House correctly? "That's my secret! Shit!"

Wilson mentally beat himself for falling into the same explosion of emotion as House. He wanted to mess him up for leaving, not encourage him. Both men stared at each other in a mix of horror at themselves and disbelief at the other.

"And it's not drug-induced," they concluded at the same time. Each knew the other wasn't lying.

"I'm going to order pizza," House said, at loss for anything else to say. He felt awkward, something not felt since elementary school.


	3. Fall Apart and Back

Chapter 3—Fall Apart and Back

"Don't you think this is just a little ostentatious?" Wilson asked, looking unfavorably upon the cherry red, convertible Mustang parked in his space. House took the key from his jacket pocket and unlocked the doors.

"No, not at all," House said sarcastically, "hop in, the idiots at the dealership apparently misunderstood me."

Slowly, Wilson eased himself into the car. His pain medication was beginning to wear off.

"What'd you ask for?" Wilson asked, "hey-I'm-gay?"

"Dark red. Not convertible."

"Two straight guys wouldn't be caught dead in this. Did you actually buy this?"

"Leased it. Would you prefer a black one?"

"You can lease these?"

"I can. Now turn on the radio and push the top back. Sunglasses are in the glove box."

Wilson sighed, shaking his head playfully and following House's instructions, thankful that no one was visibly watching.

"What are we going to do about this?" Wilson asked, leaning on the armrest, enjoying a chance at fresh air after a week of almost constant exposure to hospital-grade disinfectant.

"I'll trade it back in, I suppose," House said, carefully looking both ways before going straight at a stoplight.

"No, Sarcastic Ass. Don't evade the question."

House shifted gears to help the car up a hill and held Wilson's hand, intertwining their fingers. "It's probably not a great idea to act like Chase and Cameron. Or Thirteen and Foreman. That was nauseating. "

"Agreed. You're not going to make a decision, are you?"

House quickly turned into the parking garage where he normally kept his bike, and parked in his usual place. "Nope." He unlocked the doors and stood up, searching for his cane.

"Again, I state, you're an ass."

"Oh, but you like it." House withdrew his cane from under the seat and locked the black canvas roof into place. Neither of them noticed the shiny BMW headed towards them.

Ordinarily, Wilson would have simply flinched at the car horn, then resumed following House towards the elevator. Now that he had suffered the trauma of being hurled through the air and thrown into a ditch, he let out a yelp and hid behind the Mustang.

"What the fuck?" House yelled, spinning on his heel. He saw the retreating BMW, but no Wilson. His cane fell to the floor as he ran for where Wilson had just stood, fearing the worst.

"Jimmy?" House called, rapidly scanning the area.

"Back here," Wilson grumbled, emerging from behind the Mustang.

"What on earth are you doing back there"? House gripped the side of the Mustang to steady himself as his adrenaline rush wore off and pain began to stab through his leg.

"Never mind. Where's the cane?"

"Over there," House nodded towards his cane, lying on the pavement. "I was busy chasing after that BMW, thinking it ran you over or something. You're not exactly a good luck magnet."

"You ran without your cane?"

"For about fifty feet, yes. Now fetch."

Laughing, Wilson retrieved House's cane, and they took the elevator up to their apartment.

*~*~*~*

"You were scared," House concluded, sitting on the couch next to Wilson and propping his feet on the coffee table.

"What?"

"When that stupid car honked at you. It scared you. Why?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Oh, stop stealing my personality. I'm wondering if you're pre-PTSD."

"A psychological diagnosis from Dr. House?" Wilson's hands flew to his heart in mock surprise. "I'm amazed. An irrational diagnosis from the world's most rational man."

House reached over and held him, careful to avoid jostling any stitches. "More along the lines of a concerned diagnosis. Anything could set you off, and that would be bad. Imagine administering chemo and then, say, someone dropping something in the hall."

Wilson cuddled into House's embrace. "I'm not a veteran, House. My reaction was perfectly normal. Did you seriously run after me?"

"Nice change in conversation."

"Seriously, House."

"Yes, I did. The adrenaline rush made it so I didn't feel anything until I got to the car."

"I scared you that badly?"

"That you did."

Wilson thoughtfully looked up at House. "That's interesting."

"Stop being boring. What car do you really want? The Mustang was just for kicks. I wanted to see the look on your face."

"We should keep it. Maybe it'll mess with Cuddy."

House smiled slightly at the idea. Cuddy liked to think she knew everything about all of her doctors, especially their relationships. Not knowing House and Wilson's friendship status would drive her up the walls in irritation. It was perfect.

"We should," House said, eyes lighting up at the thought. "We could probably get Foreman, too. Maybe even Chase and Taub."

"Chase, yes. Foreman, probably not. He's already been here once."

"How do you propose we do this, then?"

"We'll keep it a secret. But we'll do little things to keep them wondering. Like Thirteen and Foreman. Only, if you wear high heels, I'll have to use them to beat some sense into you with."

House kissed the top of Wilson's head. "Let's go to sleep. You ate, right?"

"Yep."

"Alright. Take your meds."

Wilson reached past house and took a pill bottle from the side table.

*~*~*~*

"It's not cancer," House concluded, sliding a stack of case notes into a blue folder and giving the folder to Foreman. The patient had come in with severe throat and neck pain. "The patient would be dead. Do an MRI with contrast and go from there."

House's beeper went off. Scowling, he checked the number. His own office? He turned around in his chair to look through the glass wall. Someone had left a vase of white flowers on his desk. No one was in the room; House only caught a glimpse of a white lab coat as the door fell closed.

"What in the world," Foreman said incredulously, looking over House's shoulder at the flowers. "Who would send you a thank you present?"

"I have no idea," House said. "Now, after the MRI, run a tox screen and look for possible infections. Put the patient on antibiotics. If it doesn't clear up, then we know we're wrong." House stood up and left the room, intending to check out the flowers. There was a card wedged between the stems and the side of the vase. Smiling to himself, House pocketed the card. Wilson.

"Lunchtime," Wilson said, poking his head through the office door, then stepping in.

"Someone's in a good mood," House pointed out, wincing as he stood up. "Where are we going?"

"I was hoping you'd have a craving for something and spare me the decision."

"Pancakes, but I doubt the cafeteria serves those at two in the afternoon. You, on the other hand…."

"I have a meeting in an hour."

"Fine, then."

Defeated, House followed Wilson to the cafeteria. They each ordered a burger and sat in their usual booth, neither one speaking. House's phone went off. Scowling, he answered it.

"The patient's dead," Foreman said, before House had the chance to ask. "Cuddy isn't happy."

Wilson's attention span drifted off, and his gaze wandered past House. "Cuddy?" He wondered aloud. House snapped his phone shut without another word, and hastily crammed it back into his pocket.

"Gregory House!" Cuddy yelled, storming into the cafeteria and stopping beside House. "Do you have any idea what just happened to your patient?"

"No," House lied, "I left Foreman in charge. Did something interesting happen?"

"He's dead."

"Foreman's dead?" Wilson exclaimed, finally directing his attention towards the conversation.

"No, you idiot, House's patient. Your patient, House, is dead. Do you want to explain?"

"I don't know," House said, "I never got any results back. I'm sure the doctor performing the autopsy can tell you."

"For your sake, he'd better. And you, House, had better hope his family doesn't sue. Clinic, the rest of the week. Double hours. I'm not feeding your laziness anymore, and I hope it wasn't the dead man's family who sent you the flowers."

"I have no idea who sent those. Can I return to my lunch before your ass grows a mouth and eats it for me?"

Cuddy, rendered speechless, left the cafeteria immediately. House shuddered and resumed eating.

"It might be a better idea to let up on the ass jokes," Wilson suggested. "I don't know how much more Cuddy is going to take from you."

"I'm only telling the truth. Nice flowers, by the way. I'll actually try to keep those ones alive." House finished his coffee with a single swig. "Let's check out for the day. I think your conference can live with one absence, and my responsibilities just kicked off."

"Seriously? You never leave early."

"I was planning on it today."

*~*~*~*

_"__I know we're headed somewhere, I can see how far we've come  
But still I can't remember anything  
Let's not do the wrong thing and I'll swear it might be fun  
It's a long way down when all the knots we've tied have come undone…."_

"Now will you tell me where we're going"? Wilson asked, resting his feet on the dashboard of the Mustang. House's suggestion of leaving early, then going by the apartment for jeans, gloves and winter coats left him wondering.

"Horse riding," house said. Wilson's feet slid from the dashboard as he looked at House with a mix of shock and disbelief.

"But what about…. Horse riding? You? What the hell?"

The corners of House's mouth twitched up in a slight smile, despite his attempt to remain stoic. He wasn't entirely sure Wilson remembered telling him that he loved horseback riding. The hobby had accompanied Wilson through med school, but because of his job, he never had time. The fact that House would consider not only venturing into the woods, but doing an activity that involved moving his leg without a cane, was earth-shatteringly shocking.

"I'll be fine," House insisted. "I just took some Vicodin—Shit!"

A large pickup truck crossed the double-yellow in an attempt to pass them.

"I'm going seventy," House grumbled. Wilson gripped the bottom of his seat in pure terror. House's gaze narrowed. The pickup suddenly slammed on its brakes and swerved, sending the Mustang off of the road. The truck spun on its front wheels and rolled into the ditch. Instinctively, House through his arm across Wilson's chest to keep the airbag from colliding with his chest and bursting his stitches as the car hurled into a stump.

"Goddamn it," House swore. He unbuckled himself and Wilson, and turned off the car. "Breathe, Jimmy." He held Wilson to him. Wilson was in a state of utter hysterics, and a borderline asthma attack. "It's okay. We're okay. Are you hurt?"

Wilson shook his head no and collapsed against House, in tears.

"I am so sorry, mate," a man's voice said. House looked up to see a burly man with sandy hair, dressed in camo, standing over them. "I didn't mean to, there was a dog—Good lord is he alright?"

"He's fine," House snapped, adrenaline wearing off and anger setting in. "This, however, is a leased car, so we need to exchange some information."

"Mate, if you need money I can—"

House sensed trouble, and almost smiled with glee. "I can't legally do that."

The man started to back away. House released Wilson and stood up, cane bared menacingly at the man.

"Get your insurance information, now. Or there will be a lot more for you to worry about than an old man with a cane."

The man grudgingly went back to his truck while House called the police.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said as soon as House pocketed his cell phone.

"It's okay," House said tenderly. "I….understand. It's not your fault."

Wilson gave him a confused expression. Blue lights flashed behind them.

*~*~*~*~*

"Enlighten me," Wilson said, bending forward over his chestnut horse to avoid a branch. The police had agreed to drive House and Wilson to the ranch, after investigating the crash. Wilson had since calmed down, and was now peacefully riding along the trail with House. "How exactly are we getting home?"

"I called a cab while you were talking to that rancher," House said. Pain wracked his leg at every stride his grey horse made, but he told himself he would take it. Anything as long as Wilson wasn't having a panic attack. "We'll leave at five."

"Wait here."

House stopped his horse, trying to follow Wilson's gaze. He couldn't, and Wilson kicked his mare into a swift, extended canter. House watched in pure, disbelieving shock and amazement as Wilson guided his horse towards a series of stacks of unused fence posts, calmly gliding over each one. He slowed the mare to a walk and approached House.

"I just had to get that out of my system," Wilson said. "It was too good of an opportunity to pass up."

"I knew you rode," House stuttered, "you never told me you did that without busting your ass at least once."

"Hard to imagine me beating you at something, right?"

"That was…incredible."

"It was nothing, really."

"How close can you get that horse to mine?"

Wilson nudged the mare's sides and sidestepped next to House's horse, so that they were facing each other, only a few inches apart. House took his reins in one hand, leaned over, and swept Wilson into their first kiss. Without thinking, Wilson stood up in his stirrups to support House. His horse shifted nervously as it felt its rider's knees weakening, but the men hung on a little while longer, savoring the tenderness of the moment.

"Damn," Wilson gasped, pulling back ever so slightly, "I didn't see that coming."

"Exactly," House said, sitting up in his saddle, "that would have been boring. Now, how do you make a horse go that fast?"

"You kick it, basically. Why?"

House turned his horse around. "It's almost five. Catch me if you can." He kicked the grey into a gallop. Smiling, Wilson tore after him, racing for the barn. House kept well ahead of him until they reached the driveway. His leg wouldn't support him any longer, and he had to let Wilson win the race, but it didn't irritate him. _I hope he liked it, _House thought.


	4. Screw With Them

A/N: Although no one expects the Spanish Inquisition, I do not own it, nor any part of Monty Python, aside from a stack of DVD's. I don't own Pearl drums, either.

Chapter 4—Screw With Them

"I can't believe I'm about to do this," Wilson said nervously, buckling his helmet and glancing at House's motorcycle. His stomach felt as if it were doing flip-flops.

"You can do it," House said, snapping his visor into place. "Stop being a baby. Just close your eyes and think about something else. Oh, and remember to hold on. It would be counterproductive to do otherwise."

House mounted the bike and Wilson cautiously got on with him, tightly grasping his middle when he felt the bike begin to ease forwards. The rest of the ride was a terrifying blur of car horns, squealing brakes and House's swearing. By the time they arrived at the hospital, Wilson was not only wide awake, but appeared to have aged five years and acquired a nervous tick.

"It wasn't that horrible," House said, trying not to laugh at Wilson's bewildered expression. He took off his helmet and picked up his cane.

"It was…an experience," Wilson said, following House's lead and remembering to remove his own helmet. He ran his free hand through his hair and noticed Cuddy's car approaching. He and House exchanged a mischievous grin and embraced. Knowing that Cuddy was watching, House softly kissed the top of Wilson's head and released him. Brakes screeched and rubber burned when Cuddy slammed on the brakes in disbelief. Wilson and House were walking away from the motorcycle, hand-in-hand.

*~*~*~*

"What do you know about House and Wilson?" Cuddy demanded, stopping Chase on his way to the locker room after lunch. Chase turned around and gave Cuddy a confused expression.

"House is a sarcastic ass and Wilson's too good for him?" Chase asked, not entirely sure why Cuddy was pestering him, nor why she looked like an agitated rooster.

"No, not in general. I already know that. I meant, lately. Have they been acting weirdly?"

"Um, not really. House got some flowers yesterday, and Wilson voluntarily rode on House's motorcycle. Any reason? If you need me to—"

"—is something wrong?" House interjected, walking up to Chase. Wilson stopped behind them, nearly colliding with Chase. "Other than the coffee, of course."

"Cut it out, House," Cuddy snapped. "What the hell is going on with you two?" She pointed at House and Wilson.

"No more than what's going on between yourself and Thirteen."

"House, you are unbelievable. Forget it. Just forget I ever asked."

"You know, a hooker said the same thing last night. I think I'm catching on, as the next Lupus."

Chase couldn't help but laugh as Cuddy stuttered, searching for appropriate words.

"Did you do something?" She finally sputtered at Wilson.

"I don't have time to play who took whose crayons," Wilson said. "I have patients."

Wilson nodded politely and went about his way, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cuddy rounded on House. Chase took his chance and fled towards the locker room.

"You were holding hands," she hissed, "I saw you. Are you taking something other than Vicodin?"

"You must be having hallucinations." House contemplated adding more, but the fury radiating from Cuddy told him to do otherwise. "On another note, the insurance company should've given you a call."

"They did. Now stop evading the question."

"I'm not evading the question. I'm merely asking for another one so I can contemplate the answer to the first one."

"How did you manage to total a brand-new Mustang?"

"That, wasn't my fault. You'd know that if you read the file for a change."

Without thinking, Cuddy snapped her and forward and upended House's coffee cup, making it look as if House had wet his pants. It was House's turn to be rendered speechless as he limped away from the scene, holding his coffee cup and patient file in front of his wet pants, and went to his office.

"What happened to you?" Foreman asked when House finally made his way into the diagnostics room.

"Cuddy decided to be an ass for a change," House said.

"Did you make an ass comment?"

"No, but I was thinking it. This is for you," he handed Foreman the patient file. "I have to go to the clinic. Should be back after lunch."

Foreman took the folder and watched House leave.

"Is Cuddy really that terrifying?" Wilson asked, leaning on the door to House's locker and trying not to laugh at the wet stain decorating House's pants.

"No, but apparently she thought hot coffee and going commando would be." He yanked a pair of pants from his locker.  
"Well, I have underwear, and we can always get better coffee."

"I don't think we're quite there yet. The underwear, not the coffee." House quickly changed pants and crammed the dirty pair into his locker. Wilson stood up straight.

"Why so defeated?" House asked, raising an eyebrow at Wilson. "It's only underwear."

"I'm wondering how much trouble we're in."

"Nothing I can't get out of. Honestly, I think I've done worse." House stepped forward and hugged Wilson. "Personally, I think this is hilarious. We rammed the stick so far—"

"—I get it. I think I'm just over thinking it."

"Does one of the little baldies have terminal cancer?"

"Yeah, this little kid. He's, like, five."

House heaved a sigh and held Wilson tighter. As much as he loved him, he would never understand how a person could care so much about one, anonymous patient.

"I know you don't care either way," Wilson said, "but I do. It's worse attending a funeral for a kid."

"Just do the family a favor, and fall apart on your own time. Don't do anything at last minute." House gently smoothed the younger man's hair and backed out of the embrace. "I have to go track down another car. I'm thinking something a little more sturdy. Something that won't be turned inside out by a stump."

Wilson cracked a half-hearted smile and left the locker room with House.

*~*~*~*

"AIDS," Foreman concluded, closing the file. House walked into the room and leaned against the wall. "When did you get here?"

"Five minutes ago," House said, "Cuddy doesn't know I'm here, so if you see her, warn me. Why AIDS?"

"He tested positive, and there really isn't any other alternative, House."

"I wasn't going to suggest anything. I'm suffering from acute clinic condemnation and needed to exercise my brain."

"How'd you manage that one? Cuddy didn't say anything."

"A wreck that was legally the fault of an Australian fleeing fraud charges."

"You wrecked your bike?"

"No, you idiot, I wrecked a leased Mustang."

Foreman stifled an uncharacteristic laugh. "That was yours?"

"Yes, is there a problem? Some kind of anti-sports car regulation that Cuddy conveniently forgot to mention?"

"No. I'm thinking about you and Wilson in a cherry red, convertible Mustang."

"At least we wrecked in style. Top was down. I'll be back later for a follow-up, in case it's not AIDS."

House stood up and left, heading for Wilson's office.

"What the hell?" House exclaimed, opening the door to Wilson's office. "Did something snap and send you back to first grade?"

Wilson briefly glanced up at House before returning to the pile of green, red, gold and white paper on his desk.

"It's Christmas," Wilson stated bluntly. "I always help with the decorations."

House resisted the urge to burst out laughing. "I seriously didn't know that. I thought you were Jewish."

Wilson pointed to a stack of neatly cut menorahs, stars of David, and a tall coil of dredel and Hebrew script garland.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Every year, House."

"I meant today."

"Since…Holy crap it's been three hours."

House shook his head playfully and sat on the couch.

"While you're in here," Wilson added, "I need more snowflakes." He stood up and placed a stack of white paper and a pair of scissors on House's lap. House looked at the paper, then at Wilson.

"You actually think I possess artistic ability?" House asked.

"Yes, actually, I do. Now cut."

"I'm flattered."

"You're sarcastic."

House propped his bad leg up on the couch cushions and started cutting snowflakes. They hardly spoke; House managed to allow the snowflakes to absorb most of his attention. Neither of them noticed when Cuddy stepped in to check on Wilson's progress.

"House," Cuddy said, expectantly, crossing her arms and glaring down at him.

"What?" House shot irritably, not bothering to look up from his work.

"Clinic?"

"I'm busy. I'm making snowflakes for bald children, and until you showed up, I was doing it with a straight face."

"Of your own free will?"

"Well, Wilson asked, so not really."

Cuddy shifted her glare towards Wilson, who was idly decorating a paper Christmas tree. He shrugged, and put the tree on top of a stack to his left.

"We have an activities department for that," Cuddy stated dryly. House and Wilson cast her identical, bored expressions.

"I'm not behind on my hours," House said.

"I doubt you're doing more good here. You would do well to get a head start on tomorrow's."

House gestured to the heap of snowflakes on the floor beside the couch that was almost at the same level as Cuddy's knees. She picked one up and her face rearranged itself in shock. Not only had House agreed to make Christmas decorations because he was asked, he had done a half-decent job. Each was completely different, cut perfectly like on a cartoon. House put his scissors on Wilson's desk and left for the clinic.

"How on earth," Cuddy exclaimed once House was out of earshot, "did you get him to make Christmas decorations? He didn't even try to sabotage them."

"He just did it," Wilson said boredly. He was beginning to see why House avoided Cuddy with the same energy as one would avoid dog sick. "I gave him paper and scissors and he did it. I didn't think I'd end up facing a Spanish Inquisition."

"Watch out, I think House usually says things like that. He won't like you taking his place. What's wrong with you two? House is showing compassion and you're irritable."

Wilson's fist slammed into his desk. "I had three children, Cuddy, diagnosed with terminal cancer. I had to tell three kids under the age of ten that they are going to die. And I have to say, all of the banging and crashing and beeping isn't really helping, either."

"If you need—"

"—I don't need time off. That's the last thing I need."

"You're not PTSD, if that's what you're thinking. It's only been ten days."

"Eleven. I've been abnormally jumpy and alert for all of them. At everything. Doors slamming, for instance. House closed the fridge door to hard last night and it set me off."

"It's still shock."

"Six of one, half dozen of the other. My point is that I'm extremely stressed out right now, so of course I'm going to be irritable. Take your own advice and read the goddamn file."

"Get House and go home, Wilson. Both of you. I'd expect that from House, but not you, so something _is_ wrong."

Wilson cast Cuddy a glance to kill and donned his coat. "Now I'm wondering if something's wrong with you," he grumbled. "Being an ass is House's territory. You usually stick to having one."

Cuddy stormed from the office. Wilson paged House, and the pair of them left the hospital.

"Did you get another car?" Wilson asked, worry welling up in his chest. The thought of another high-speed motorcycle ride was far from comforting.

"Nope," House said, drawing a key out of his pants pocket. "Better."

Wilson almost went weak with relief when he saw the Ford SVT Raptor parked beside House's motorcycle.

"You're going to have to drive," House said, pulling on his helmet. "I can't exactly help you put the bike in the bed of this thing."

"I'll figure it out," Wilson countered. Driving on his own was almost equally as terrifying as another motorcycle ride. Wilson wheeled the motorbike up to the bed of the truck and lifted up on the handlebars. It rose a foot off the ground before he was overwhelmed.

"You can't do it. It's too heavy. You'll be fine, and I won't mock you horribly if you drive slow."

"Yes you will."

"Only a little. Not as much as usual."

"There's no way I can do this. If something goes off, a car horn or something…." Wilson shuddered at the thought of being behind the wheel and having a total meltdown.

"Then pull over. You're going to have to drive again sometime."

Wilson's eyes narrowed. He put his hands on the bike, planning on lifting the entire thing this time. Then, House jumped at him and yelled. Wilson's reaction was just as he'd predicted. The adrenaline rush from Wilson's sudden terror sent the bike flying into the bed of the truck and he started running. Then he slid on a patch of ice and fell flat on his butt.

"Perfect," House said, limping over to Wilson. "Problem solved."

"You asshole!" Wilson roared. "What the _fuck_ was that? I can't believe you, Greg! I could've killed both of us if I'd missed! I could have smashed over fifty thousand dollars worth of vehicles. All so you wouldn't have to go out of your God-blessed way to do one fucking thing for me! What the fuck, Dr. House, did I do to you? You always back out on me, or leave me somewhere, like I'm this, this thing you can't wait to get rid of, and I ask you to do one thing! Leave your bike until tomorrow, but you can't do it, can you? That stupid bike matters more than the possibility of me involuntarily freaking out and killing myself right in front of you! You would have to watch me die, House, how does that feel?"

Wilson stood up, pure rage powering from every pore of his body. House, awestruck, didn't move in time to stop Wilson as his fist collided with his chest, causing him to fly four feet in the opposite direction. He didn't stand up.

"Shit!" Wilson yelled, now in tears from the sudden emotional stress. "Greg! Goddamn it!"

"Are you going to help me up or just swear at me?" House snapped. "You broke my damn cane."

"Crap," Wilson reached down and pulled House to his feet, holding him close. "I didn't….I didn't mean to."

"I get it," House sighed. "I get it. I made a mistake, but it was purely impulsive. He bent down slowly to pick up the pieces of his cane. It had snapped in half when he fell on it. "It's okay. I'm not hurt. It'll bruise, but my leg's okay. Let's go home."

They slowly made their way back to the truck, and House drove to the apartment without further commentary. They didn't speak to each other until dinner was finished, and they were in their pyjamas watching television.

"I didn't realize I hit you until I'd already done it," Wilson said suddenly. "It was seriously an accident."

"I had it coming," House said. "I've had that coming for a very long time. I'm surprised I didn't get it earlier."

"Well, you don't know how to act any other way. You don't mean half the crap you say, so it's not as bad."

"I didn't. Never have." House reached across the couch and pulled Wilson close to him. "I didn't leave unless it was important, either. I had things to arrange for you after your wreck. Trying to get anything done in that place is hell. Honestly, I didn't even consider the fact that you'd be coherent enough to know if I was there or not."

Wilson cuddled up against House. "I guess your innate sense of hearing me care needs to make an appointment with the ENT."

"I'm going to have to say no to the corny puns. I love you, but no."

"I don't know what to do. I'm scared that Cuddy's going to send me to an institution, or something."

"It's not full-blown PTSD. This isn't near as bad as…things I've dealt with before."

"It never is, House. You know me."

"I don't know you're reactions. I only knew mi-my patients'."

"Your reactions? Does this have something to do with you claiming to understand?"

House heaved a sigh and scratched his head. "I was a freshman in college. Someone broke into my dorm hall. Shot my roommate right in front of me. I thought he was going to kill me, too, but he just left me to watch the roommate die. He made me watch him die at gunpoint, too. I wasn't in a position to fight him off."

"Shit…."

"I won't let Cuddy do anything to you. You're staying right here." House held Wilson tighter. "Have you thought about taking a week off?"

"I can't, there's too many patients."

"There's bound to be someone else who can take over for a day or two. You need some real sleep. Lying in bed petting me for six hours really only counts towards proving that you're an obsessive-compulsive."

Wilson's cheeks flushed red. He hadn't realized that House had been awake.

"I'll meet you in the middle," House continued. "We'll work the rest of this week. Christmas is on Sunday, we'll take Monday and Tuesday off. Unless we're celebrating Hanukkah. Then I need a new strategy. It's up to you, really."

"We?"

"Unless you're planning on moving out anytime soon."

Wilson shot him a questioning glance.

"Thought not. Did you assume I'd leave you all on your own? I like time off just as much as the next satirical ass."

"Not really. Something tells me that you'd find leaving me here by myself to be boring."

"Way to go, you're a genius. Now. The Christmas Ball is tomorrow. It's the perfect opportunity to screw everyone up at once."

Wilson couldn't help but smile at House's abrupt, yet appropriate, change of subject. Planning out a ruse for the Christmas Ball was preferable to discussing their present mental states.

*~*~*~*

"Sorry I'm late," House said, sitting at the table, between Chase and an empty chair. He tightened his tie absentmindedly.

"Where were you?" Cuddy asked, her words drilling into House like an acid. She sounded like a nun. He could scarcely manage to keep a straight face.

"Spiking the punch."

Cuddy heard rushed footsteps behind her, then a thud and a clatter. Wilson was on his butt on the floor, surrounded by what had been his and House's dinner. Cuddy felt the distinct sensation of pot roast sinking into her hose. An annoyed looking usher scowled harshly at Wilson as he stood up and took his seat.

"Your shirt's still unbuttoned," House said in a low voice. His seemingly innocent comment worked. Both men felt Cuddy's stare start to burn into them.

"What?" House asked, acknowledging Cuddy's apparent discomfort.

"_Still _unbuttoned?" Cuddy stated, leaning most of her emphasis on the 'still.'

"Well, yeah."

"Why was it unbuttoned in the first place?"

The entire table's attention shifted to House.

"Oh my God," Chase exclaimed, an incredulous, epiphany-implying expression crossed his face. "There's no way in hell."

"Someone did mention you doing Cameron before I did Wilson."

The following silence was nearly deafening.

"Oh it's not like he has herpes," Wilson finally added.

Chase's nervous laughter broke the tension. "Well, this is certainly…awkward."

House and Wilson shrugged. "Only if you make it," House said.

"Did you seriously have sex?"

"No, you idiot. He spilled the first round of drinks all over his shirt and jacket."

The group exchanged glances and passed a few uncomfortable laughs.

"I think this is the longest we've gone without being kicked out," House mused, leaning back in his chair.

"No, I already figured out that you did spike the punch, you filled half the sandwiches with whipped cream, and toilet-papered a nurses' station," Cuddy said, sipping her drink. "The first one's okay, but in light of the fact that you didn't use _all_ of the toilet paper in the hospital, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have reason to believe that you're planning something else."

"Christmas tradition," Wilson grumbled, standing up and pushing in his chair. House followed suit, and slowly followed Wilson out of the room.

"We should wait up on Cuddy," House suggested, stopping next to the door to the women's restroom.

"What are you planning now?" Wilson asked skeptically. He had already been kicked out, and wasn't keen on more misdeeds.

"Something fun."

They heard the clicking of high heels against tile. House quickly leaned his cane on the water fountain, and pinned Wilson up against the wall.

"Oh hell," Cuddy said, stopping cold in her tracks. It was inconceivable. House and Wilson. She had to be hallucinating. "What on earth?"

"What?" House said, leaning on his cane. He'd taken advantage of Cuddy's lengthened blink and picked up his cane. He and Wilson now stood apart, casually, looking at Cuddy with questioning expressions.

"You were…I saw you…."

"Cuddy, you're hallucinating."

Cuddy nodded slowly and went into the bathroom. Now out of earshot, House and Wilson gave in to the building laughter and continued down the hall, unable to believe that they had successfully tricked Cuddy into thinking she was hallucinating. It was by far the best prank they had pulled.

*~*~*~*

Snow was falling outside the bedroom window when Wilson woke. House was still peacefully asleep beside him, snoring away, holding him tight. A bird flew into the window glass and caused both men to jump. House merely moved from asleep to groggy; Wilson had fallen all the way out of bed, but managed to control himself for the most part.

"Shit," Wilson snapped, picking himself up and crawling back into bed. "Starting my day off right."

"It's fine," House said through a head-splitting yawn. "Merry Christmas, that poor bird not only flew into a window, but now knows that you sleep in your underwear."

"Shut up, House. You like it."

House tucked the comforter around Wilson's shoulders and slowly eased out of bed. "I'll get breakfast, bird-boy wonder. Next time, try flapping your arms and you won't fall so hard."

House was reprimanded by a pillow to the head. Satisfied, Wilson went back to sleep. House woke him a half-hour later with breakfast in bed, and helped himself to the steaming stack of pancakes.

"You do realize that you not only made breakfast," Wilson said, "but did so well and without complaint?"

"It must be that Christmas spirit that everyone's been talking about. It's contagious."

"So is lupus." Wilson gently kissed his lover and put the now empty breakfast tray on the bedside table. "I'll race you to the living room."

"That's not fair. You have two legs."

"What do you have, then?"

"One and a half."

"Fine, you can have a head start."

House started to quickly limp across the room. Wilson waited until he had cleared the doorway, and took off after him.

"Slow down," House warned, "you'll hit a window." Wilson cast him a smile, then stopped dead in his tracks. A set of red Pearl drums stood next to House's piano.

"What on earth?" Wilson mumbled, warily advancing towards the drum kit. He turned to look at House.

"They're not for me," House said.

"What made you think I wanted to learn to play _drums_? That would be worse than going to a fireworks display."

"Exactly. Calm down and hear me out."

Wilson sat on the piano bench, arms crossed, glaring at House with the utmost distaste.

"You're afraid of things you can't control. You couldn't control the truck that hit you. Loud noises went along with that, and it scares you, because when you lost that control, your adrenaline peaked; all the way up to the level of that of people who die traumatic deaths. Noise makes you relive the memory, and causes your adrenaline to spike until you hit the point of hysteria."

"I don't quite get where you're going with this."

"If you can control what scares you, it probably won't scare you for long. Just a theory, but I think I'm right. I usually am."

Wilson took a heavy breath and took up the pair of sticks lying on the piano. "Yours is under the tree." Carefully, he adjusted the stool behind the bass drum. House looked up from his new amplifier and watched as Wilson closed his eyes and, shaking all the while, started to strike out at the surrounding bits of percussion.

"Keep going," House said when Wilson started to stand up. "You haven't had a panic attack yet."

"I'm getting dressed," Wilson said. "I'll come back to it."

True to his word, Wilson did indeed return to his drums. At two in the morning. Halfway between annoyed and elated, House donned a pair of earplugs and waited for his love to return to bed.


	5. Recovery

Chapter 5—Recovery

"Cuddy," Foreman exclaimed, clapping his head to his forehead. "For the last time, you are not having hallucinations. House and Wilson are screwing with you."

"There's no way," Cuddy insisted, adjusting a stack of papers on her desk. "Even House doesn't go that far on a whim."

"Well, I've seen them, too. They're messing with your head and unsuccessfully trying to mess with mine."

Foreman's gaze narrowed in frustration. Whatever degree of insanity that House and Wilson were planning to impose, they had nearly reached it. Cuddy was almost at the breaking point, driven up the walls by the confusion over House and Wilson's relationship status. Not knowing would eventually cause her to combust, he reasoned.

"Where's House?" Foreman asked, about to leave Cuddy's office, and deciding against it.

"He had to take care of something, I think. He and Wilson had his bike in the truck this morning."

"We're going to need him if you're in the mood for handing out cases."

"He's been damned to the clinic for awhile, so you're on your own."

"What'd he do?"

"A lot of things."

Cuddy was interrupted by Wilson crashing through the door to her office. He was a mess; tie loose, collar unbuttoned, hair disheveled.

"Are you okay?" Cuddy asked, slightly alarmed at Wilson's appearance.

"Is House here yet?"

"He checked out a couple of hours ago. He said he had to take his bike in for an oil change."

"Crap. What time did you say?"

"I don't know, two hours ago, maybe? Is someone in trouble?" Cuddy quickly glanced at the calendar on her desk. House had checked out at 8, and it was now nearly eleven.  
"I've been looking for him for ages."

"Haven't seen him," Foreman said unhelpfully. "Did you try the morgue?"

"Yes, and he wasn't there. I think something might've happened to him. He hasn't returned any calls."

"Maybe he's playing a prank on you."

"I doubt it. He'd be in my office gloating about it."

Cuddy stared at Wilson, evaluating his appearance, and the fear exuding from him. His tie was gone, collar unbuttoned, hair disheveled. Cuddy realized that he had probably spent most of the morning wondering where House had vanished off to.

"Alright. Fine. Come on," she took her car keys out of her pocket, but Wilson stopped her.

"I have four-wheel drive," he said, "House took his bike, remember?"

"Don't just stand there!"

Wilson led the way out of Cuddy's office at a run. They crossed the hospital in minutes, and quickened their pace when the truck was in sight.

"Are you sure about that?" Cuddy asked when Wilson ran in front of her and hurled himself into the driver's seat.

"I hope so," he said, not bothering to adjust the mirrors or seat. He gunned the engine and sped away. _House would've taken the back routes_, he devised, _too much traffic on the interstate_. He shuddered at the thought of his own adventures when he'd made the same decision, hoping that House wasn't somewhere in a ditch, pinned to the icy ground by a seven-hundred pound motorcycle.

"We'll check the apartment first," Wilson said, escalating to nearly a hundred and ten miles per hour, sailing down the interstate and weaving in and out of the slower-moving cars. He made it to the apartment in record time, and sent Cuddy in to search for House.

"Nothing," she said, climbing back into the truck, chest heaving from the strain of sprinting through the parking lot, running up three flights of stairs, and back again. "Cane, helmet and keys all gone. Didn't see his bike anywhere."

"Shit." Wilson began to sweat. He set off toward the hospital at a far slower pace, scouring the roadsides for any sign of a wreck. He was about to come up over a particularly icy hill when something caught his eye. Skid marks.

"Damn it," he breathed, stopping the truck and throwing it into four-wheel drive. He put the parking brake on and ran to the side of the hill. The guardrail was perfectly fine, not a trace of blood or oil. As he looked farther, he saw House's motorcycle at the bottom of the hill, in a hundred pieces. Terror began to envelop him as he called for Cuddy.

"Cuddy, I found the bike!"

"Did you find him?" Cuddy ran up beside him, searching the trees. Then, they heard a scuffle from below. They climbed over the guard rail and looked down over the very edge of the hill.

"Greg!" Wilson and Cuddy yelled in unison.

"Down here, you morons," House responded. He was hanging by his coat from a sturdy tree, caught by two inches of chance. His helmet was scratched and dinged, but House himself appeared fine, no apparent blood or fractures. "Get that goddamn truck over here and toss me the fucking winch!"

Wilson regained the feeling in his knees and quickly obliged. Cuddy tossed the steel hook down to House, who all too eagerly latched on and allowed Wilson to carefully reel him in.

"Took you long enough," House said, dusting bits of rock and tree off of his pants. "Figure it out when I didn't call? I mean, I would've, but my phone is currently down with my bike."

"Obviously," Wilson said, softly wrapping his arms around House. Cuddy turned away. "How the hell did you manage to pull that one off?"

"I have no idea. The proper combination of trees and gravity. How long was I down there?"

"Upwards of two hours. Let's get you home."

"No. Cane store, then home." House gestured towards the hill. "I lost it when I flew over the guard rail."

"You went over it?"

"I quite obviously didn't go through it, moron. The bike went over and I figured it would be in my best interest to let go. Let's get out of here."

House slowly limped around to the passenger's seat and heaved his tired body into the passenger's seat. To his shock, Wilson belted himself in behind the wheel.

"Are you insane?" House asked, looking from Wilson to Cuddy, then back to Wilson.

"No," Cuddy sighed, "He's fine. He went well over a hundred miles an hour to get here. He weaved in and out of traffic, too."

House's jaw dropped in awe. Wilson simply shrugged and started the truck as House grasped blindly for words.

"Can't you go any faster?" He finally said.

"Nope," Wilson said, a joking glint in his eyes, "speed limit's forty-five."

**End

A/N: Sorry if that was a bit rushed. Endings aren't my strong point. Once again, I do not own House, M.D., Ford, Monty Python, the Spanish Inquisition, Pearl drums, etc.


End file.
